


I'm Sorry For Your Loss

by TaliskerMortem



Series: The World Cup 'Verse [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Football, Alternate Universe - Sports, Derek and Stiles are on opposing sides, Drabble, Established Relationship, Football, Football World Cup, M/M, World Cup
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2014-06-20
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:45:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1818997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TaliskerMortem/pseuds/TaliskerMortem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's three minutes left on the clock. Who will win? And who will they want to celebrate with?</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm Sorry For Your Loss

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I've been watching far too much football over the last few weeks and all those sweaty guys hugging each other has made me a little desperate for some fics. So I figured, why not write some myself about my favourite pairing? This will be a series of unconnected one shots and if you have any particular scenarios you'd be interested to see, hit me up (probably on [tumblr](http://taliskermortem.tumblr.com)) and I'll see what I can do. Also, this first one isn't great but I just wanted to post something to get the ball rolling. Some will be longer than others and I'm not sure when I'll be posting but we'll see. Hope you enjoy, comments always welcome.

There were three minutes on the clock. Three minutes left until they would be forced into penalties. Stiles glances around him, _come on, come on,_ they have three minutes to make something happen. Then Mahealani was snatching the ball from under Boyd’s feet, passing to McCall, who was running down the left side, passing to Rodriguez, back to McCall and Stiles was in the six yard box and then McCall was feeding him the ball and there were two minutes on the clock… And Stiles curved his foot around the ball, dragging it slightly to the left before smacking it mercilessly into the Spanish net.

The crowds went berserk; the Mexican fans screaming with glee as it took a moment for it to actually sink in for the players on the pitch. Had he done that? Had he just scored what was probably the winning goal against the current World Cup defenders?

McCall was jumping on his back, screaming in his ear. Bodies were pounding into him, patting any inch of him they could reach, cheers falling on deafened ears. Then the referee was yelling at them, gesturing for them to get back on the pitch. There was still a minute on the clock.

Stiles watched as the Spanish goalie booted the ball over the half way line and the dark skinned, muscular Spanish centre-forward snatched it, kicking it swiftly in the direction of their star striker… but it wasn’t enough. The whistle was blown and the match was over. Mexico took the victory.

The benchers were already swarming the pitch, congratulating their team, screaming and laughing – and in Soto’s case even crying – but Stiles’ eyes were scanning the field again, searching for a familiar silhouette. McCall had Soto in a headlock, jumping up and down, a grin spread so wide on his face Stiles was sure it might break in two. Mahealani was swapping shirts with the Spanish right-back… but they weren’t who he was looking for.

And then he spotted him, standing at the halfway line, watching him. Stiles ducked under Rodriguez’ arm and ran at him with the last burst on energy he possessed, flinging himself into the Spanish striker’s arms who quickly caught him by the thighs to keep them from toppling over. Despite defeat, the Spaniard couldn’t help but laugh at the lithe Mexican’s squeal of delight.

“You were amazing,” he whispers into Stiles’ closely cropped hair, stroking his thumb against his hipbone.

“I’m sorry for you loss,” comes Stiles’ muffled reply from here his face is buried in the man’s broad shoulder. “And at the same time, I’m really not,” he adds on after a moment, grinning cheekily up at him. Derek response by letting go of him and smirking as Stiles struggles to remain upright. “You’re mean,” he pouts.

“Whatever,” Derek tries to repress a fond smile – fairly unsuccessfully one might note – before shoving Stiles’ pouting face away with laugh. “Go join your teammates Stilinski,” he chuckles.

“If you insist,” the younger man huffs, turning away only to spin back round again to drag Derek into one last embrace. “I love you,” he whispers in his ear softly.

“I love you too Stiles,” Derek murmurs, squeezing just a little tighter. “Now go, before they accuse me of letting you win!” he orders, shoving Stiles in his teammates direction. The softness of his expression belies his words though and Stiles can see the affection shinning from his eyes.

He was so gone on his rival it wasn’t even funny.


End file.
